Whispers At Court. Blythe Gifford
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scanned the cavernous Hall of Westminster Palace from the edge of the dais as servants bearing flambeaux wandered among the crowd. Torchlight flickered, casting shadows over the faces, and she studied each one, searching for her future.
Would the tall earl from the West Country be chosen as her husband? Or perhaps the stout baron from Sussex who had recently buried his wife?
Yet French hostages dotted the crowd as well, marring her mood. She was not inclined to feign politeness to more of her father’s killers. At least, surely, the one who bested Gilbert would dare not show himself tonight.
Determined to impress the visiting kings with the full power and glory of his court, King Edward defied the darkness of the night. The high table was crowded with bronze candlesticks and dozens of twinkling flames.
Yet, for Cecily, memories lurked in the shadows. When her father was alive, he sat at the king’s table. When her mother was alive, they whispered their judgements of the ladies’ gowns. The scarlet that Lady Jane was wearing, her mother would have admired—
‘Cecily? Did you hear me?’
She leaned forward to catch Isabella’s whisper. ‘I’m sorry. What is it?’
A frown creased Isabella’s face. ‘Attend. Father has had good news about Scotland. He’s in a bounteous mood and not as clear-headed as usual,’ Isabella whispered. ‘You may find yourself promised to the nearest available lord before the night is over.’
Cecily looked around the hall, steeling herself. ‘Has he mentioned anyone in particular?’
Isabelle shook her head. ‘Not to me.’
She did not know who she would marry, yet she knew he would be an Englishman, loyal and strong. A man the king could trust as implicitly as he had trusted her father, for Losford Castle, Guardian of the Channel, was the most important bulwark in all of England, the one that could keep England’s enemies away from her shores.
It could only go to a man for whom duty was all.
As it was for her.
She had grown up knowing this would be her lot, always. She was the only child of the Earl of Losford and sole holder of the lands and title. She would marry as her parents, and the king, decided.
‘Do you think about him?’ Isabella’s question brought her back.
‘I think about my father every day.’ Not that she had seen him every day while he lived. Like all men, he had spent much of his life at war in France.
‘I meant your husband. Who he might be.’
Strange question to come from a woman long unmarried. Yet Cecily’s father had not hurried her marriage, either. Even as she passed an age to be wed, her world had remained her parents, their castle and the court.
She’s not ready, her mother had whispered to her father.
But the death of her parents had rent her world so thoroughly that she wondered whether even a husband could make it whole again. ‘I think only that I will accept the king’s choice.’ As was her duty.
‘Well, Father demands that a man acquit himself well on the tournament field,’ Isabella said, ‘and he was more impressed with those hostages today than with any of our men.’
Resentment wrestled with relief. At least a hostage would not be a prospective husband. ‘The dark one I can understand,’ she admitted, grudgingly. ‘He conducted himself according to the rules of chivalry, but the fair-haired Frenchman was a disgrace.’
‘Perhaps, but Father said he would be a useful man to have on your side in the midst of a battle.’
A surprising admission, for a king who modelled himself and his court on the ideals of King Arthur’s Round Table.
‘Look,’ Isabella said. ‘Over there. There he is.’
‘Who?’ Relieved at Isabella’s wandering attention, Cecily followed her gaze. ‘Where?’
‘The French knight. The dark one. There by the fire.’
The man was standing comfortably beside his blond friend before one of the hearths, halfway down the hall, as if they were lounging in their own hall instead of the king’s.
‘It is time we met,’ the princess said. ‘Go. Bring him to me. I would congratulate him on today’s joust.’
‘I refuse to speak to that man,’ she said, thinking of the blond one. What was his name? Somehow in the noise and chatter of the tournament, neither she nor Isabella had heard either of the knights announced. ‘After the way he treated Gilbert...’
Isabella twisted her mouth.
Cecily’s frown twitched.
And then, they both gave in to laughter. ‘Poor Gilbert.’
After initially appearing uninjured, Gilbert had developed blossoming bruises and left the hall early, limping. At least Cecily would be spared the need to feign an interest in a detailed account of his embarrassing performance.
‘Send one of the other ladies,’ she said, after she stopped laughing. ‘Or a page.’ That would be a proper insult to the man.
Isabella shook her head. ‘Speak to the man or snub him as you choose. Just bring me his friend.’
Sighing, Cecily stepped off the dais and started down the Hall. And as she made her way through the crowd, her resentment grew. She lived in England, under an English king and in an English court, yet French music surrounded her. When she danced, French steps guided her feet. Even the words on her tongue were French. No wonder the hostages looked so comfortable. But for sleeping on this side of the Channel, they might as well be at home.
Isabella was right. They shared culture, language and even, in some cases, blood. Yet all that had not been enough to keep them from killing each other.
Just as she reached the two men, the dark one slipped away. She paused, thinking to escape, but she had moved with too much purpose. The fair-haired knight looked up and met her gaze.
Now, she could not turn aside.
He leaned against the wall, seemingly at ease, but when she came closer, she could see that despite the sweet music and laughter all around him, he seemed coiled and ready for battle.
Cecily paused, waiting for him to acknowledge her and bow. Instead, he looked down at her, silent.
‘It is customary,’ she began, through gritted teeth, ‘for a knight to acknowledge a lady.’
He shrugged.
Could nothing stir this quiet barbarian? ‘I am attached to the royal household.’
‘So am I to bow not only to the English royals, but also to those who serve them?’
‘I am no serving girl,’ she snapped at the demeaning suggestion. But he could not have mistaken a woman wearing velvet for a serving girl. He wanted to make her furious, that was clear. Worse, he was succeeding. She unclenched her fingers and forced a shrug to match his own. ‘You have proven again that French chivalry is vastly overrated.’
He stood straight, then, as if her words had been the blow she’d intended. ‘Chevalier Marc de Marcel at your service.’ A slight inclination of his head, its very perfection a mockery.
‘Chivalry is more than courtly manners. A chivalrous knight would have allowed an untried opponent to hold his honour on the field.’
He glanced at her violet gown and an expression she could not decipher rippled across his face. ‘The favour he carried. It was yours.’ Something in the timbre of his voice reached inside her, implying that she and Gilbert...
But it didn’t mean what you think. ‘I would have said the same even if it was not.’ Pinned by his expression, she had trouble taking a breath. The anger in his eyes matched her own. Or was it something besides anger? Something